


Six Inch Heels

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Memory Loss, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Missy's invite had been maddeningly vague, but he'd accepted it nonetheless. Perhaps if she'd mentioned the half-naked women he wouldn't have come, but then again, anything was better than another Netflix marathon, and he really needed the social interaction. He'd just have preferred the participants to be slightly more clothed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This developed from a conversation between myself and [Aimee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MayFairy/pseuds/evilqueenofgallifrey). It's ludicrous. You have been warned.

The Doctor looked down at the psychic paper and tried to ignore the voice in his head that was loudly proclaiming what a terrible idea it would be to follow the coordinates that had appeared on it, scrawled by an invisible hand in shoddy handwriting. Invisible author, yes. _Mysterious_ author, no. He’d spent enough time copying her homework at the Academy to recognise Missy’s untidy scrawl, and he was in no doubt whatsoever that wherever the coordinates were for, it would turn out to be a trap, and traps were – by her own reckoning – her flirting. Or her foreplay. It depended what mood you got her in. 

That being said, he was bored, and lurking in the Horsehead Nebula while binge-watching Netflix was only a viable course of action for so long. He’d made it through most of _Orange is the New Black,_ purchased an orange jacket in an optimistic flight of fancy, immediately burned the damn thing, then started _Stranger Things_. He’d had to reluctantly admit that the show had a lot of promise, then made a mental note to pay the CIA a visit and check in on MKUltra. Couldn’t have them going around creating psychic teenagers – that was much more his remit. 

But that had been two days ago, and since then he’d only been flicking through the _Recently Added_ section with listlessness. He was bored, and he was Netflixed out, and anything seemed like a better idea than skipping forward a couple of years to find out what had happened to Eleven and spoiler himself. 

Sighing, he flipped the leather wallet closed and stalked in the general direction of the console, programming coordinates and trying to ignore his time machine’s determined psychic protestations that this was A Bad Idea and he should Leave Well Enough Alone. “I know, I know, stop complaining,” he told the ship under his breath as he squinted at the screen and realised the address Missy had given him was on Coruscant. “Really?” he asked aloud, with an impatient eye roll that he hoped Missy could sense from afar. “You had to pick that godforsaken little rock?”

Huffing, he disengaged the handbrake and flung them into the vortex, leaning against the edge of the console as he pondered the human race and their ability to establish self-fulfilling prophecies. Writing a film saga called _Star Wars_ then naming one of their colonies after a planet in aforementioned saga seemed a great deal like tempting fate to him, but then again, so did most things that humans did – funny little creatures that they were. Not that he didn’t miss them, of course, because he did, but after the last one, and the one he barely remembered, taking a break seemed like a sterling idea. Loitering in distant nebulas and watching Netflix seemed like the perfect balm for healing two broken hearts, and if he occasionally ventured to the odd world for a spot of solo adventure then that was entirely between himself and the TARDIS. 

A thought occurred to him as they landed, and the TARDIS beeped in consternation as she picked up on his sudden flash of panic. “I’m not picking up another stray,” he assured her, patting the console reassuringly. “No matter how insistent Missy is about me accepting one as a gift. Unless she threatens to murder them, in which case I’ll acquiesce for the sake of theatre then drop the poor thing home. Possibly via a therapist’s, you know what Missy is like.” 

_Beep-beep, beeeeep, beep-beep._

“You worry too much,” he raised his eyebrows, shoved one hand deep in his pocket, resting it on the sonic for self-defence, then stepped outside and into what, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be an explosion of crimson. The categorisation of the colour stirred something dormant in the back of his brain, but he was immediately distracted as he looked around the ersatz, overblown room and located Missy, who was draped elegantly over an aggressively red leather sofa that was sporting a number of dubious-looking stains. Dressed from head to toe in an odd shade of brown, save for a pop of white at her collar, she was levelling her handheld at the Doctor in a way that would probably have been menacing, had she not been giggling and sipping wine as she did so. 

“Hello, duckie,” she said in a singsong voice, taking another gulp of what – he realised abruptly – may or may not be red wine. With Missy, one could never be sure. “Are you one of the pervs? Do I need to vaporise you?” 

“Missy, what the hell? Stop pointing that thing at me.” 

“I mean, you did shack up with that awful human girl. Oh wait. _Several_ human girls, and frankly that’s got to be some kind of weird fetish, so maybe I should.” 

“Why are you vaporising people?” he asked, taking a hesitant step to the right only to find her hand-eye coordination disappointingly honed as the handheld tracked his movement.

“Because they’re nasty creepy men, dear,” she rolled her eyes, as though her answer should be obvious. “I think I’ll allow you to step over the threshold, though – human girls are rather delicious little things.” 

“Can we stop calling them ‘girls’? It’s degrading,” he asked, wrinkling his nose, then lifting one foot up and waggling it in an exaggerated fashion before setting it down again on the plush carpet. “Also, I’m already over your threshold.” 

“ _My_ threshold?” Missy arched an eyebrow and made a coy face. “Down, boy.” 

“You know what I meant,” he sighed, looking around at the colour-coordinated walls and furniture. “Where the hell are we?” 

“Coruscant,” she told him, in the kind of tone which he typically favoured using on especially stupid humans. “Duh.” 

“Yeah, but… where? Specifically? You could narrow it down, you know, it’s a rather large planet.” 

“My place.” 

“Oh, for Rassilon’s sake, if you’ve lured me to your bloody TARDIS again-” 

“It’s not a TARDIS,” she purred, setting down her glass and running one hand over the leather she was reclining on. “It’s my place. Established and curated for the discerning gentleman, and you, my dear, are most discerning. The gentleman part is somewhat in refute, but that can be overlooked in favour of some of your other talents.” 

Before he could react in an appropriately affronted manner, Missy had clapped her hands and a concealed door slid open in the opposite wall. 

“Urm,” he began uncertainly, edging back towards the TARDIS in apprehension. He knew Missy, and he knew the kind of traps she laid, and this did not seem like a fun kind of trap. “I’m not about to get eaten, am I?” 

“Only in the fun sense,” Missy said in a sing-song tone. “Girls, come on in. The Doctor will see you now.” 

The Doctor’s eyes flickered from her to the door warily, and he froze as a woman entered the room in silence, her head held high. She wasn’t tall – far from it, she could only come up to his chest – but she moved with a sense of authority that seemed to contrast with her size, and her hips swayed as she walked in a way that he was fairly sure humans considered alluring. Not that he’d know, of course, being a Time Lord, and being largely immune to such things. Mostly. Occasionally. When such things – _women_ , the feminist part of his brain argued grumpily – were dressed in clothing more significant that a deep red bikini and matching veil, which covered the girl’s face in a way he managed to simultaneously find both alluring and concerning. 

“Missy,” he complained, in only a very slightly strangled tone. “These better not be sex nuns. I’m not up for dealing with sex nuns.” 

“They aren’t _nuns_ ,” she told him, giggling, and he found himself transfixed by the veiled woman as she drew nearer to him. “You’re terribly slow.” 

“Am I?” he asked in a faint voice, as the girl reached him and placed both her hands on his chest, laughing breathily as she did so. He was having trouble concentrating, that much he knew, as he gazed down at her, fixated by this strange woman. Had he been drugged? Was there something in the air? Maybe he should stop breathing, he might- _You idiot,_ a part of his brain interjected, as he did his best to focus on the girl’s veil rather than the ample amount of cleavage she was displaying. _You’re a man, remember? Gallifreyan or not, you’re not immune to a pretty girl._

“Hello,” the veiled woman said in an accent that was decidedly not of this system. He’d have liked to consider that more, but she was _awfully_ close to him, and somehow that seemed decidedly more important. “You must be the Doctor.” 

“Urm,” he stammered, his eyes sliding downwards of their own free will, and the view rendered him speechless for what he was fairly sure wasn’t much longer than a heartbeat. He hoped. “Y-y-yep, that’s me.” 

He was only dimly aware of other girls entering the room behind her, each garbed in a different colour and each moving with equal effortless poise as they arranged themselves around him in a loose semi-circle. He’d died. That was the only explanation. He’d died, and gone to some version of heaven that Missy had somehow gatecrashed with sex nuns. “It’s a real pleasure,” she told him, running her hands up his lapels. “I’ve been waiting for this. We all have.”

There were general murmurs of assertion from around the room, and he looked around at the kaleidoscope of veiled women in confusion as her words registered in the 3% of his brain that wasn’t gibbering incoherently in response to the amount of exposed skin surrounding him. “Missy?” he asked after a moment, the self-same 3% finally getting through to the decidedly distracted remainder of his superior Time Lord brain. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, dear,” she trilled, picking up her wine and sipping at it coyly. “Just giving you some gifts.” 

“These aren’t gifts, they’re people.” 

“Can’t we be both?” the first girl asked in a teasing voice, and lifted her veil. 

The Doctor’s hearts both ground to a crashing halt as he looked down at a pair of distantly familiar hazel eyes. “No,” he managed to say, staggering backwards, away from her touch. This wasn’t heaven. This was some twisted version of hell that Missy had devised for him and him alone. “No, you can’t be…” 

“But we are,” a second girl said, lifting her own veil, and the Doctor recoiled in horror as the same hazel eyes stared back at him. “We all are.” 

Sure enough, as he looked around the room, he found woman after woman removing her veil, revealing herself to him. Twenty copies of the same face, assembled in one room and smiling at him benignly in a way that indicated they had no idea who they were to him, or what they could possibly mean. “Clara?” he asked, the name coming to mind unbidden, and all twenty women looked to him as one: a blinking mass of dimples and dark eyes and chestnut hair, that breathed and blinked in absolute unison. “No…” 

He backed away from them, sinking onto the sofa Missy was still perched upon as an awful, burning pain began to take root in his brain. Memories began to flicker across his subconscious, faster than he could process, and he closed his eyes as the agony intensified, trying to calm his racing heartbeats and suck in lungfuls of too-warm air. He could sense Missy beside him, full of devilish glee, and he mentally cursed her as loudly as he was able, hoping she would pick up on the signals. 

“No,” he said again, clenching both his fists and placing them to his temples, kneading the skin there in the hope of alleviating his pain. _Damned neuroblock,_ he cursed. _Damned Time Lords. Damned past me._ “Why are you doing this?” 

“Oh, consider it a fun little reminder,” Missy said sharply. “Not to mention a wonderful business idea. All those copies? Quite a lucrative scheme, no one can tell them apart.” 

The Doctor bit back a scream, the pain in his head increasing twofold then threefold then exponentially. He was abruptly aware of the memory of a woman in a waitress outfit, leaning on a counter and feigning nonchalance, then the same woman in the Cloisters. The same woman who – in a perverse form, certainly – now stood before him. _Clara._  

“Oh, please,” Missy said disdainfully. “You’re not going to regenerate, are you?” 

His eyes snapped open and he looked down at his hands in dismay, watching the golden glow that enshrouded them. He didn’t want this. He didn’t _need_ this. There was too much at stake for him to regenerate now, and he willed the energy away. This would not be a good way to go – regenerating in a room full of beautiful, half-naked women. He would never hear the end of it from Missy. 

“No,” a voice said quietly from the back of the room, and a girl stepped forward, pushing aside her peers as she completely removed her veil and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing a navy-blue bikini edged with white, a colour combination that seemed oddly familiar, and her eyes were wide and determined as she approached him. “He’s not.” 

“And you would be?” 

“You can’t tell us apart,” the woman said, taking the Doctor’s hand in her own and squeezing it a way that he recognised. He inhaled sharply and squeezed back, warm amber light encircling their intertwined hands before beginning to fade. “You said it yourself. More fool you.” 

“No,” Missy breathed, her face twisting into a furious scowl. “You-” 

“You wanted a hybrid reunion,” the girl said with an easy shrug, pushing open the doors to the TARDIS and guiding the Doctor inside. “What a shame it’ll be on my terms. Don’t wait up for us.” 

“You bi-” 

Missy’s scream of rage was cut short as the girl slammed the doors shut behind her and crossed to the console, piloting them back into the vortex as the Doctor groaned on the steps, his hands still tingling but their ethereal glow extinguished. 

“Who…” he managed after a moment, the pain in his head dulling to a tolerable throb as his newly-regained memories settled into place. He cast an eye over the woman who was circling the console with practiced ease, trying to reconcile her confident grin with the broken, weeping waitress she had been when he last saw her. He knew who she was, of course. Knew it from the way his hearts sang, but he wanted her to say it. “Who are you?” 

“Now, there’ll be plenty of time for questions when I’ve regained some modesty” she said cheekily, raising an eyebrow as she took his spare coat from its home on the reading chair and slipped it on. Buttoning the worn burgundy velvet up enough to cover her bikini, she sank down onto the step beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, humming contentedly. “Now, I know you know who I am. Confusion or no confusion.” 

“Cl-” 

There was a loud crackle, and then Missy’s disembodied voice echoed around the console room, her tone both petulant and terrifying. “ _Bring him back! This isn’t fair! Clara Oswald, you despicable bitch, you can’t just steal my bezzie mate!_ ”

“Whoops,” Clara got to her feet, rolling up the sleeves of her newly-acquired jacket and tipping him a wink. “Sounds like we’ve really kicked the hornets’ nest. Now, I’ll do the running for both of us, you just concentrate on remembering without regenerating, you clever boy.” 

“Clara Oswald,” he said, relishing the sound of her name as he spoke it at last. “Back in my TARDIS at last.”

“So, you’ve remembered,” she pushed her hair out of her eyes and grinned. “Now, do you want to help me out here? We’ve got some prophecies to fulfil. But only if we can outrun your deranged arch-enemy.”

Getting to his feet a touch unsteadily, the Doctor crossed to where she was stood at the console and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “Mm,” he concurred, dipping a kiss to where her pulse should – by rights – be thundering under her skin; hating the lack of a heartbeat while rejoicing in her immortality. “Universe be damned?” 

“Universe be damned.”


End file.
